Baron Grell lay on his stomach in the frozen mud at the top of a hill, holding a wildly expensive brass spyglass to his eye.
He was a wealthy, pompous man who prided himself on his military intellect. Right now, his intellect was completely short-circuiting.
Down in the valley, the courtyard of Ravenhold Keep was overflowing. A massive line of merchant caravans stretched down the border road. Grell watched in absolute horror as wealthy traders happily handed over fistfuls of silver to Lord Elaric's maids.
"I do not understand," Grell hissed, adjusting the spyglass. "That is my mead. I dumped it on his lawn because it tasted like fermented piss. Why are they buying it?"
Next to him, Sir Kael, his loyal and incredibly boring knight, squinted at the Keep.
"Perhaps it is the waitresses, My Lord," Kael suggested. "They seem to be missing half of their winter uniforms. You can see their... bare knees."
Grell scoffed loudly. He smacked the back of Kael's helmet.
"Idiot," Grell snapped. "Look deeper. Look at the economics. Lord Elaric is not selling them women. He is executing a ruthless, terrifying cost-cutting strategy!"
Kael rubbed his helmet. "He is?"
"Of course!" Grell sneered, feeling incredibly smart. "Do you know how expensive heavy winter wool is? By chopping the maids' dresses in half, Elaric has reduced his textile overhead by at least forty percent! And by selling them my spoiled garbage, he has a product with zero brewing costs! He is a monster of efficiency!"
Grell lowered the spyglass. A fire burned in his eyes. He refused to be out-economized by a turnip-farming border savage.
"Ride back to our Keep," Grell commanded, marching toward his horse. "We are going to steal his business model. But we are going to do it better."
An hour later, the pristine, stone-paved courtyard of Grell's Keep was silent.
Twenty of Baron Grell's elite, battle-hardened guards stood in a row. They were all terrifying men in their late forties. They had thick, unkempt beards, missing teeth, and faces covered in old sword scars.
They were also freezing to death.
"Shorter!" Grell screamed, pacing up and down the line. "Cut the tunics higher! We must save on fabric!"
Gorge, the massive, one-eyed Guard Captain, gritted his teeth. He took his heavy iron dagger and sliced the hem of his gray wool tunic all the way up to his mid-thigh. His thick, incredibly hairy, knobby knees were completely exposed to the winter wind.
"My Lord, this is humiliating," Gorge growled, his teeth chattering. "My testicles are retreating into my stomach."
"Silence, Gorge. This is high-level merchant psychology," Grell lectured. "Now, cut a 'V' into the collar. The merchants need to see that we are not wasting thread on buttons."
Gorge sighed. He sliced his collar down to his sternum, exposing a thick jungle of matted chest hair and an old crossbow scar.
"Perfect," Grell clapped his hands. "Now, the product. Lord Elaric serves spoiled mead. But we are a wealthier Keep. We will serve them spoiled luxury goods."
Grell pointed to a massive wooden barrel sitting in the direct sunlight next to the pig pens. "I had the cooks leave a barrel of premium cow's milk out all morning. It is completely warm and thick. Merchants love chunks. When they ask for a drink, Gorge, I want you to lean over the table, make eye contact, and ask them for two extra coppers. Do you understand?"
"Lean over. Ask for copper," Gorge repeated miserably.
"Here comes a caravan now!" Grell shouted, running to hide behind a stone pillar. "Positions, men! Show them the knees!"
Four wealthy merchants walked through the gates. They looked tired and thirsty. They had heard rumors on the road about a magical border tavern where angels in short dresses served drinks with a smile. They had taken a wrong turn and ended up at Grell's Keep.
"Hello?" the lead merchant asked, looking around the pristine courtyard. "Is this the tavern?"
Gorge stepped out from behind a table.
The merchant froze.
Standing before him was a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound wall of muscle and body odor. Gorge was wearing a mini-skirt. His thick, hairy thighs bulged. He held a wooden tray with a massive, sloshing cup of warm, chunky, spoiled milk.
Remembering his orders, Gorge forced a terrifying, psychotic smile. He stomped over to the table and leaned all the way forward. His tunic gaped open, presenting the merchants with a horrifying view of his sweaty, hairy cleavage.
"Would you like the premium warm chunk milk for two extra coppers?" Gorge growled in a deep, gravelly voice.
The lead merchant's face went completely pale. He looked at the chunky milk. He looked at Gorge's exposed, hairy thighs.
"It's a cult," the merchant whispered in pure terror. "They are going to eat us."
"Run!" another merchant screamed.
The four men turned and sprinted out of the courtyard, abandoning a cart full of expensive silk. They didn't even look back.
Baron Grell stepped out from behind the pillar. He was absolutely baffled.
"Fools!" Grell screamed at the empty gates, tearing at his hair. "You don't understand basic economics! Come back and look at his knees!"
Two hundred miles to the south, a heavily armored, luxury carriage rolled smoothly over a paved road.
Inside the carriage, Inspector Vance held a silk, lavender-scented handkerchief over his nose. He was a thin, sharp-featured man from the Capital, wearing an incredibly expensive velvet coat.
He was currently staring out the carriage window with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust.
"Look at them, Captain," Vance muttered, his voice muffled by the handkerchief.
Captain Rhol, a heavily armored Capital Knight, leaned over to look out the window. They were passing through the lush, green pastures of the Dairy Marches, the territory of Lord Petyr. Hundreds of peasants were out in the fields, herding massive, fat cows.
"They are just farming, Inspector," Rhol said slowly.
"Farming?" Vance scoffed. "They are devolving. This is the tragic reality of the provinces, Captain. It is basic biology. Because these people subsist entirely on cow's milk and cheese, their skeletal structure is actually softening. They are essentially bovine-spined primates. Notice the slope of their foreheads? It comes from suckling animal teats instead of reading literature."
Rhol blinked. "I... am not sure that is how bones work, sir."
"You are a soldier, not a scholar," Vance said dismissively, waving a gloved hand. He unrolled a large map of the Kingdom on his lap. He traced his finger northward, moving away from the Capital.
"We are currently in the Dairy Marches," Vance lectured, tapping the map. "Tomorrow, we will cross into the jagged hills of the Goat Lords. A truly vile people. The constant bleating of the goats has mutated their vocal cords. They can no longer speak proper King's English, only high-pitched screams."
Inspector Vance's finger slid all the way to the top edge of the map, stopping on a tiny, pathetic dot labeled Ravenhold.
"And finally, by the end of the week, we will reach the absolute bottom of the evolutionary ladder," Vance sighed, looking exhausted by the very thought. "The Turnip-Eaters of the Northern Border. I have read the medical texts, Captain. The Turnip-Peasants pull their food directly from the freezing mud. The cold dirt actually shrinks their cranial capacity by fifty percent. Their blood is practically dirty water."
Vance pulled the King's paranoid letter from his coat. He read the broken pigeon-message again. Poison mud water. Takes all silver. Army of merchants.
"The King believes Lord Elaric Voss is a mastermind building a secret army," Vance sneered, tossing the letter onto the carriage seat. "But the King does not understand provincial biology. A Turnip-Lord is genetically incapable of complex thought. When we arrive at Ravenhold, I expect we will find Lord Voss communicating entirely in grunts and throwing his own feces at the walls."
Vance leaned back against the plush velvet cushions and closed his eyes.
"We will audit his mud-huts, take whatever shiny rocks he has collected, and return to civilization," Vance declared. "It will be the easiest, most predictable assignment of my career."